


Haze

by roqueamadi



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-04-01 08:26:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13994376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roqueamadi/pseuds/roqueamadi
Summary: Jaime isn't feeling well. He's probably just being weak; everyone always says so.





	Haze

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Oldstupidtemplar](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Oldstupidtemplar).



> For a prompt from [Oldstupidtemplar](http://oldstupidtemplar.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Hope you enjoy! ^_^

Jaime grunted as Bronn’s sword caught him on the arm.

He’d lost count of how many times Bronn had tagged him this session. Lucky the sparring swords were blunted, or Jaime would probably be passing out from blood loss by now. He _hadn’t_ lost any blood, but he felt like passing out all the same. It was hot on their training platform; the sun was beating down on them, and Jaime felt like there was a small fire burning inside his skull, heating him up even more and making him feel light-headed.

Bronn pushed him backwards, attacking relentlessly on his vulnerable right side, driving him in a circle, and he stumbled, momentarily dizzy. Bronn’s sword thwacked down on his hip, this time.

“Argh,” he muttered, at the sharp twinge of pain.

“The fuck’s wrong with you today?” Bronn said carelessly, using the question as a distraction as he attacked again without warning. Jaime didn’t have the energy to reply. He just concentrated on keeping Bronn’s blade at bay. Not that it really helped. When Bronn knocked Jaime’s sword out of his hand, he lifted his arms in surrender.

“Let me get some water,” he said, staggering over to the low wall.

“Tired you out that much already, did I?”

“Just let me—” Jaime swallowed half the water flask and stood dizzily for a moment before gathering himself and picking up his sword.

“Alright, let’s go again.”

Jaime just couldn’t get his body to respond as quickly as usual today. He focussed hard on Bronn’s attacks, but if anything he was getting worse. The second time his sword flew from his hand, Bronn clicked his tongue.

“You ain’t concentrating. What’s the fuckin’ point of me being here if you clearly can’t be bothered?” Bronn paused. “You sick or something?”

Jaime glanced up at Bronn as he went to retrieve his sword. “Just a little dizzy,” Jaime said dismissively. “I’m fine.” He expected Bronn to roll his eyes and tell him to toughen up. He _didn’t_ expect him to grin in approval.

“Even better,” Bronn said cheerfully, charging forward to attack him. “Someone wants to kill you, they won’t wait for a sealed statement from the maester that you’re all good to go. Best time to practice.”

Jaime just groaned in response to Bronn’s little speech and kept up his defence, his feet moving sluggishly, his breathing uncharacteristically laboured. The bout seemed to lasted for hours, until suddenly he felt like the heat was enveloping and taking over his body until—

Jaime dropped his sword, spun and threw up on the ground. He leaned his elbows on his knees and staggered until Bronn grabbed his hips, steadying him. Jaime panted, his body shuddering, glad for the moment of rest. But then—

Bronn pushed him back, picked up his sword, and tossed it to him. Jaime didn’t know how, but he caught it, and raised it in time to collect Bronn’s next swing, wiping his mouth on his sleeve as he staggered backwards.

“You think an enemy’s gonna wait for you to sort yourself?” Bronn said savagely, driving him backwards again, and then Jaime understood. Like his father, like everyone else who had trained Jaime as a child, they weren’t going to give in to his pathetic pleas. Jaime recognised, distantly, that he was probably just being dramatic. Everyone always told him he was weak; he supposed it must be true. However, through the haze of his brain, Jaime was aware that Bronn wasn’t exactly pushing him hard at this point. He had slowed his movements, tempered his aggression. Jaime responded sluggishly, but it was enough, and when Bronn gave him an opening—rather obvious, but Jaime wasn’t complaining—he took it straight away, whacking his sword into Bronn’s ribs.

“Good,” Bronn praised, satisfied, lowering his sword. He glanced at the sun. “I’d say that’s an hour, d’you think?”

Jaime just stared at him, his brain struggling to keep up. Bronn had _barely_ pushed him, though he was acting like he thought he’d worked Jaime almost to death. Belatedly, he realised Bronn had taken the sword from his hand and wrapped it up in the carrying case with his, then he was back, passing Jaime the water.

“Drink,” he directed. Jaime did as he said, keeping an eye on Bronn as he did, waiting for the trick, for the sneak attack. But it never came. Bronn took the flask back when Jaime was done and gave his sleeve a quick tug in the direction of the stairs. Jaime started up slowly. His legs felt like they were made of stone. He distantly felt Bronn’s hand on his hip again, turning him before he walked off the edge, completely missing the turn. He felt like his head was stuffed with cotton wool, and he just concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. He honestly wasn’t sure he’d make it home. He shoved the thought down, knowing he was likely just being pathetic again, and stared down at his feet, focussing on not falling down, just stepping left, right, left, right, all the way back up to the city, and through the streets, marvelling at the ability of his legs to keep moving when he felt like they really shouldn’t. And then Bronn tugged his elbow, drawing him through a doorway, across a noisy room, up some stairs, through another door—

Jaime looked up, blinking, as the door closed behind him and he found himself out of the heat, away from the noise of the street, in a quiet, calm room with the evening light filtering through the window. Bronn was bustling around the room. There was a bed, a desk, a wardrobe—

“Where are we?” Jaime asked dumbly.

Bronn turned back to him, putting a hand on his shoulder and walking him backwards two steps until his calves hit the bed. Bronn pushed and Jaime sat heavily, the world spinning around again for a few moments. When he came to, he realised Bronn was talking, and he was removing Jaime’s boots.

“…here for a few months now, it’s fair nice compared to my last lodgings, quieter at night too. And the food’s better.”

Jaime was struggling to keep track of what was going on, but his boots were off and Bronn pushed on his shoulder again and Jaime lay down, gratefully, his head hitting a pillow that smelled like leather and lye soap and steel— _Bronn._ This was Bronn’s room, and Bronn’s bed, and Bronn was pulling the blanket up to Jaime’s chin, and then there was a knock at the door and he turned to open it. A large women greeted him with friendly familiarity, passing him a tray. Bronn took it, set it on the table, and returned to Jaime with a mug of something steaming.

“Drink up,” he said, passing it to Jaime. Jaime took it, breathing in the smell. It was chicken broth with ginger and Jaime was suddenly sent into a memory as vivid as the clearest dream. He was six years old, ill with a fever, and his mother sat on the edge of his bed stroking his hair as he sipped at chicken broth with ginger, and it was the clearest memory he’d had of her in years. His head throbbed heavily. He looked over at Bronn, sitting down at his table to eat his own meal, pulling ink and parchment towards him at the same time. He glanced back at Jaime.

“Drink up and then sleep. I’ll write your brother and tell him you’re here.”

“But— but— I can’t, Bronn, I have a shift tonight and—”

“Aye, I’m sure King Joffrey will appreciate you throwing up and passing out outside his door,” Bronn muttered, starting to write his note.

Implications ran through Jaime’s head. Cersei would stay clear of him for the next two weeks if she heard he was sick. Father would avoid him too, not that that was any different to usual, but his lip would curl and he would think that was just typical of Jaime. He had spent his whole life trying to prove to his father that he was strong, not the spoiled little lordling everyone expected him to be. Illness was not something that Jaime let happen.

He set the mug on the floor, threw the blankets back and lurched up out of the bed. Too fast. His head spun into a white blur. Luckily, Bronn caught him before he hit the floor.

“Fuck, Jaime,” Bronn muttered, hauling him back up to the bed. “You tryin’ to brain yourself?”

“Bronn—” Jaime groaned, clutching at the other man’s arm. “I can’t— I have to—”

He didn’t have the strength to resist as Bronn lifted his legs back up onto the mattress, pushed him down, pulled the blanket back up over him, tucked it around him. “What’s so important you’ve gotta kill yourself for, anyway?” he muttered.

“Not killing myself,” Jaime replied, confused. “I’m fine, I’m just a little tired. You barely pushed me in training.”

“You’re not just a little tired and I pushed you fuckin’ hard,” Bronn said slowly, as though Jaime was being dim. Bronn didn’t _understand._

“When I was eight,” Jaime said, his voice sounding odd in his own ears, “I complained of a blister on my foot. Father called all the other squires in and made me fight each of them in turn. At the end of it the ground in the training ring was stained red from all the blood leaking out of my shoe. Father said a Lannister should never give in to injury or illness. A Lannister should—”

Jaime cut off, his eyes closing involuntarily as Bronn brushed his hair back, an unexpected and unfamiliar but nice feeling. Jaime sighed.

“Your father sounds like a right cunt,” Bronn said in a low voice. “And it doesn’t change the fact that you’re staying right here. You can’t even stand up, Jaime, how d’you expect to do a guard shift?”

Jaime didn’t answer. Bronn’s fingers were still threaded in his hair.

“You got someone else you’d prefer to take care of you?”

 _Take care of him?_ It was an odd concept to Jaime. His father would be disgusted with him. Cersei would avoid him. Maester Pycelle would shuffle in and make a nuisance of himself and tell everyone he met how weak Jaime as. The rest of the Kingsguard would roll their eyes and mutter behind his back.

Yet, inexplicably, Bronn—the hardened sellsword who was hands-down as gritty and tough as anyone any of those people had encountered— _Bronn,_ Jaime had gathered, would feed him and make sure he was warm and rested and maybe stroke his hair (Jaime wasn’t sure why, but he certainly wasn’t complaining about that) and most important, apparently wouldn’t think less of him for being ill.

“No.”


End file.
